


Valiant

by Aelin-queen-of-terrasen (Badass_Saasha)



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Protective Rowan Whitethorn, Soft Lorcan Salvaterre
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:08:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29636484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Badass_Saasha/pseuds/Aelin-queen-of-terrasen
Summary: Aelin Ashryver Galathynius: Pretty. Charming. Ambitious.Recently reunited with her long lost family, she is determined to do whatever it takes to retain her inheritance in a world where women can’t own property.Rowan Whitethorn: Stubborn. Honourable. Determined.He must find a wife before his mourning year ends or lose his sons’ guardianship to his scheming relatives and in-laws.Is a marriage contract about to solve all their problems or will it only add to their ever-growing pile of troubles?Only time will tell.
Relationships: Aedion Ashryver & Aelin Ashryver Galathynius | Celaena Sardothien, Aedion Ashryver/Lysandra, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius | Celaena Sardothien & Chaol Westfall, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius | Celaena Sardothien & Dorian Havilliard, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius | Celaena Sardothien & Fenrys, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius | Celaena Sardothien & Lorcan Salvaterre, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius | Celaena Sardothien & Rowan Whitethorn, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius | Celaena Sardothien/Dorian Havilliard, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius | Celaena Sardothien/Rowan Whitethorn, Elide Lochan/Lorcan Salvaterre, Lysandra & Aelin Ashryver Galathynius | Celeana Sardothien
Comments: 18
Kudos: 17





	Valiant

Rowan glanced at his pocket watch and attempted to swallow his irritation.

How was it only nine-o-clock still? He felt he had suffered through enough social niceties to last a lifetime.

Rowan listened with but half a mind to his cousin drone on about the night’s guests. His head was filled with all the tasks he needed to see to, including searching for a new governess for his sons. The elder boy—Stephen—was all that was well-behaved and eager to please, but the younger—Charles—kept chasing away every woman he employed with his troublesome antics and he was hesitant to hire a tutor, because he believed they needed a woman’s influence too, now that his own wife was clearly disinterested in raising her children. At the slightest mention of work, she found herself beset by nerves, retiring to her bedchambers, he could not help but be annoyed. The physician had come and examined her, but could find nothing wrong. If Mrs. Whitethorn thought he could still be moved by missishness as he once had, she had another thing coming. He was running out of patience with his wife.

“–and Arobynn’s here too—”

That caught his attention. “He is?”

“Mhmm. Look, over there, no, no, to the left—besides the pretty redhead, yes, just so.”

A man stood by the entrance with a red-haired woman on his arm, tall and muscular, with a fine-boned face. His auburn hair were pulled back into a bun, offsetting his pale skin and the fine cut of his suit was a stark reminder of his prominent position in society, despite the whole stigma around tradesmen.

“I knew he was fond of flaunting convention but escorting his mistress to a ball?”

“You haven’t heard?” James approached them with a drink in his hand. “She is not his mistress but an adoptive daughter of sorts and his apparent heir.”

Fenrys choked on his wine.

“He named a girl heir to his trade empire—and not even his own blood—stupid!”

“Spoken like a man,” said the gentleman and shook his head. “He raised her himself, is introducing her to all his associates and she doesn’t look like a dumb ninny.”

James nodded towards the redhead he had seen earlier, dressed in the finest red silk with a neckline low enough, it bordered on scandalous. Her copperish-red hair were pinned into an elegant coiffure with pretty, gold hair combs and a simple, pearl necklace completed the striking picture she made. Her sharp, defined features were not exactly beautiful; that is, until she laughed—a musical sound in itself that drew the attention of all and sundry—and suddenly he wondered if a prettier face had ever existed.

“If hers was the last face I ever saw," sighed Fenrys, walking off, "I’d die a happy man.”

James rolled his eyes. “He’s about to seek an introduction to her, isn’t he?”

Rowan’s lips twitched up.

He liked James well enough. The man was completely without artifice and his enthusiasm for everything was so infectious, his approach to life optimistic but tempered with the famed Galathynius reserve that he could not but admire him. Rowan had spent a few summers with the Galathynius children, at least until their youngest daughter lived and had many a fond memory made there. He was not fond of conversation and James seemed happy enough to finish his drink in silence, the two men stood apart from the crowd until the latter was called away by an acquaintance.

“I say you must frown a little less, sir, unless you wish to give offense.”

Rowan looked up, startled at being addressed by the object of his conversation not long ago. _She looks even lovelier up close_ , thought he.

“I detest these events.”

“So do half the people in this room and yet, appearances must be maintained.”

“Deceit is not in my nature.”

The lady tutted. “It is not deceitful to pretend you are interested in an event in order to spare your host’s feelings.”

“A motive, however charitable, is no excuse for dishonesty.”

Fortunately, Miss Sardothein looked more amused than offended, but did not pursue the topic further. “I hope you will forgive me for speaking without a proper introduction, sir. I am not a fan of convention.”

Rowan smiled.

An unmarried woman, not even of age, and already a heiress to a trade empire—by all accounts, she did not seem like one.

“I will, if you allow me to remedy the situation now.” He bowed with exaggerated formality. “I am Mr. Rowan Whitethorn of Harcomb, in Doranelle.”

Her cheek dimpled. “Miss Celaena Sardothein—my mentor—”

“Mr. Hamel, yes, I know.” He almost cringed at how abruptly the words escaped. “He and I, we are—”

“—business associates, yes, I know,” she teased with an impish grin, replying in a poor imitation of his own deep voice.

Her eyes twinkled with amusement, filled with laughter and mirth—turquoise orbs, ringed with brilliant gold.

All resolve flew out of the window and Rowan was struck with the idea that for once, he might enjoy himself at a ball—or at least not be completely miserable and asked politely, “Miss Sardothein, will you allow me the pleasure of leading you into the first set? The dancing is about to commence.”

“The pleasure will be all mine.”

In hopes of starting a conversation, he said, “You are a fine dancer, Miss Sardothein."

“I would have believed you to be a liar if we hadn’t already established that deceit of any sort is your abhorrence.”

He smiled. “And if I were being insincere?”

“I would take it as a compliment to myself, for it will mean that you are acting on my advice from earlier about lying for the sake of appearances.”

He smiled, and they fell silent. 

“We must talk some, you know,” said Rowan. “For someone who claims to be concerned with appearances, do you not think it would look odd for us to spend a half hour together but in silence.”

She startled at the sudden statement. “Introduce a topic then and I will do my poor best to maintain the conversation.”

Rowan complied and was pleasantly surprised to find her lively and good-humored and well-informed on most subject from current fashion disasters to books to political bills and movements. Her arguements were passionate and far from taking offense at his dry humor, she matched it with witty quips of her own; and to top it alll off, she was as skilled a dancer as a conversationalist.

Rowan was almost annoyed when the song came to an end. He could not recall the last time he had been half as well entertained.

\------

“You will be the death of me, you foolish, foolish chit!” screeched the old matron.

Fenrys had allowed himself to be dragged into a bookstore, which happened to be one of his least favourite places, by his cousin, James—the second son to his uncle, Lord Rhoe, the Earl of Narrowcreek—and was now eager for any sort of amusement. He turned towards the high-pitched shriek with interest.

A young lady stood near the shelves, tall and proud, even in the face of her mother’s ill-bred manners.

Her blonde hair fell down in waves, half pinned by dragonfly-shaped hair combs. The fabric of her dress was fine enough for her to belong to the first circles and yet, he could not recall seeing her—or her mother—anywhere.

“Ungrateful child! Wait until I tell your father what you did; he will be most displeased.”

She bit her lip to contain her mirth, though her cheeks flushed with embarassment. Her eyes flitted to the door and back, as if she was looking for some escape.

“Poor girl,” the bookshop owner murmured.

The following words had the unfortunate attention of drawing the mother’s attention towards the owner.

Lord Fenrys almost laughed at the alarmed look on the owner’s face when she began lamenting to him instead and then looked over at the lady who was staring at the door with a thoughtful look, as if wondering whether or not to attempt an escape.

She must have decided in it’s favour because she gathered her skirts and made a mad dash towards the door.

Fenrys realised he was standing in her way and hastened to move but it was too late—

“Darn!” cried she.

The commotion drew her mother’s attention and upon spotting her wayward daughter lying on the floor with a grimace, she rushed over with a whole new litany of complaints.

Fenrys could have sworn the lady cursed under her breath.

“Stubborn, stubborn child! I told you not to run off without me but oh, how you love vexing me,” shouted her mother in her high-pitched voice. “And what are you doing, bothering this fine gentleman over here? You had better not to talk to anyone if you are determined to refuse them all. You broke that poor man’s heart—”

Fenrys quirked an eyebrow in interest, looking thoroughly entertained.

Her cheeks flushed further.

He frowned.

Up close, her face looked awfully familiar. He searched his brain for an answer.

A memory flashed in front of his mind. A highly unconventional black dress, a tinkling laugh and a ballroom.

Realisation dawned.

“Miss Sardothein! Fancy seeing you here,” said he. “I almost didn’t recognise you because of the hair.”

“The hair? Oh, yes, I am very fond of dyes, but you have caught me in my natural state.”

“I find you lovelier than ever. If you will forgive me for prying, I could not help but observe you haven’t bought a thing yet, even though I know you to be a great reader! Is the reading material not to your taste, Miss Sardothein?”

Celaena answered wryly, “As a matter of fact, the books here suit my tastes very well—It is only that I am not allowed to buy books for a month—as punishment.”

“No books! And what awful crime did you commit to merit that?”

“I rejected a marriage offer.”

“A capital offense!”

Celaena smiled, “Indeed.”

“I hope you are appropriately ashamed of yourself!”

“Horrified at my own audacity, really.”

The lady looked up at him and grinned; Fenrys’ own face turned pale and his mouth fell open in surprise. Ashryver eyes! She had ashryver eyes—like James, Aedion, and their mothers Helen and Evalin and—gods. The little poem his cousins had made up in childhood came to the forefront of his mind.

_“The fairest eyes, from legends old,_

_Of brightest blue, ringed with gold.”_

But how…?

He looked at the woman again: her eyes bright and mirthful and thick eyelashes resting on her cheek, the face tugged at his memory; and she smiled so impishly, he had seen that smile before—

“Aelin,” he blurted out.

He was startled when her smile dropped and recognition flickered in her eyes.

Fenrys shot an alarmed look towards the shelf behind which James had disappeared. Aelin was here! But how could this be? His heart thumped loudly inside his chest.

“Aelin?” She inclined her head in question.

He smiled uncertainly.

Was she really his little cousin? Aelin had been five year old when he last saw her.

But if he was wrong about this, could this come to bite him in the ass? She was certainly as old as his cousin would have been, had she been alive and she had the same unruly blonde curls and those ashryver eyes, teeming with life.

It couldn’t be…

Arobynn’s adoptive daughter.

“Yes, Aelin was my favourite cousin—you, uh, you remind me of her.”

“If she is your favourite, then I am inclined to take that as a compliment.” Celaena—Aelin?—smiled again, though her eyebrows remained drawn still. “The name does sound familiar. Perhaps I would have heard of her in the newspaper? The society column is a great source of amusement to my father. He reads it aloud to us from time to time.”

Father? He wondered if she was talking of Arobynn or Mrs. Rhunn’s husband.

Fenrys smiled sadly. “That is not possible for you see, my cousin died when she was five.”

At least I thought she died.

“I am sorry for your loss.” Then, with an arch look on her face, she asked, “If she was like me as you say, she must have been delightful.”

He chuckled. “An absolute troublemaker.”

“Definitely like me then,” said she, sparing a look towards her mother. “I should leave now, before my mother lists you off as yet another suitor!”

And before he could think to stop her, she curtsied and scurried off.

Fenrys stared at the door, somewhat dumbfounded. Aelin is alive. He marvelled at the thought and then wondered how on earth he would inform her family—James would be ecstatic and his father would have to be informed, and Edward would have to be called to London, gods. Edward!

Aelin had been missed by all but no one grieved her as the poor man had.

Edward would be ecstatic; everyone would.

Fenrys ran towards his cousin out of breath, who was still examining titles in one corner.

“Fenrys, god, slow down, man! Whatever happened? You look like you saw a ghost.”

He blinked.

Then, without any attempt at tact or discretion, he blurted out: “Aelin is alive.”

\--------

“Aelin, Aelin, stop that—no, look at your frock, mother will be so angry, no, Aelin! You will hurt yourself like that.”

The man watched, concealed behind the ridge as a little girl skipped from one mud puddle to another, blonde curls bouncing up and down as she moved. Her elder brother followed at a more sedate place, calling out admonishments and threats, not that they had an effect on her.

Aelin grinned over her shoulder and ran, leading her brother on a merry chase.

The man was still debating how to go about abducting the girl when fortune smiled upon him; she twisted her leg and fell down, prompting the boy to run towards her.

“It hurts,” she whimpered, refusing to stand.

The man smiled maliciously and waited as the boy looked around. “Very well,” he said finally. “If you promise not to go anywhere, I will fetch papa. Do not move, Aelin.”

The boy rushed towards the manor house, ignoring the twisted knots in his stomach and burst into his father’s private study. In his panicked state of mind, it took a few attempts for Rhoe to make sense of his garbled words.

A foreboding feeling rose in his stomach.

She will be fine, he tried to reassure himself. Aelin, troublemaker that she was, had had a lot worse than a twisted ankle.

But his alarm grew the nearer they came to where she was supposed to be and his heart pounded inside his chest. All colour drained from his face when they didn’t find Aelin where she was supposed to be.

“Are you certain this is where you left her?”

Edward nodded.

Rhoe suddenly felt dizzy, his knees buckled and bile rose up in his throat.

He reined himself in and with admirable composure, organised search parties to search around the estate and the neighbourhood.

The search carried on until late that night, when an express rider from the nearby magistrate arrived with a letter: a nearby warehouse had burned down earlier that day and two bodies were found: a man in his forties, who could not be identified and a seven year old girl who had on a silver anklet bearing the word fireheart and requested Mr. Galathynius’ presence tomorrow at the warehouse to confirm the girl’s identity.

Rhoe folded the letter, excused himself from company and sent his sons to their beds.

Then he entered his study: the study no one was allowed to enter without permission—except his Aelin—slumped into the armchair by the fireplace and wept.

**Author's Note:**

> This work was like, totally inspired by SO many pride and prejudice fanfictions, and the actual book (you might find references here and there) If you like the fic, please leave kudos and comments! <3


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